


The Wives of Vinculus

by Tennyson



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Fishwives, Gen, Gin. Lots of gin., Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:42:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5738878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tennyson/pseuds/Tennyson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So Childermass set spies to follow Vinculus and the first and most surprising discovery they made was that Vinculus was married. Indeed he was a great deal more married than most people. His wives were five in number and they were scattered throughout the various parishes of London and the surrounding towns and villages. The eldest was forty-five and the youngest fifteen and each was entirely ignorant of the existence of the other four. Childermass contrived to meet with each of them in turn. To two of them he appeared in the character of the unlikely milliner; to another he presented himself as a customs officer; for the benefit of the fourth he became a drunken, gambling rogue; and he told the fifth that, though he appeared to the world to be a servant of the great Mr Norrell of Hanover-square, he was in secret a magician himself. Two tried to rob him; one said she would tell him everything he wanted to know as long as he paid for her gin; one tried to make him go with her to a Methodist prayer meeting; and the fifth, much to everyone’s surprize, fell in love with him.”<br/>-<i> Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell</i>, by Susanna Clarke, p. 205, pub. Bloomsbury, 2004</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Wife

Childermass had found throughout his years of employment under Mr Norrell that it was quite impossible to satisfy all of his employer’s needs by himself; even John Childermass could not be expected to hire servants, shatter the hopes of fledgling magicians, manage the household accounts, and acquire rare books of magic (as well as gratify Mr. Norrell’s other sudden and varied whims) without exhausting himself. He needed help.

This he found in the various orphans and vagabonds of Yorkshire. Having been both of these himself at one time, it was not difficult for him to find people willing to scour the English countryside for magicians in exchange for a few shillings. As the years went on, his network of spies grew, and by the time Mr Norrell’s books were resting comfortably in the library at Hanover-square, Childermass had already established an accomplished band of cronies in London. It was this ragtag bunch that he sent across the streets of London in search of information on Vinculus, and though they could not tell him anything about the street magician’s book, he was pleased (albeit it a bit taken aback at Vinculus’s connubial successes) at the information they were able to find. He gave them their few shillings and promised to finish the task himself.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The fish market was bustling; the people who were not poking at the haddock or peering at the undersides of a flounder were yelling very loudly, because they were haggling or they were cross or both. They crashed into each other, found their waistcoats spotted with errant fish scales, and wrinkled their noses at the smell. One of the fishmongers, a plump, red-faced matron, slapped an eel down in front of a customer and dared him to find better. He meekly handed her a shilling and fed the fish into the bag at his side. Deborah Owen (for that was the fishwife’s name) grinned and pocketed the money. One of her children, a thin little girl, plucked at her sleeve.

“Mama,” she said somberly, pointing, “Look at that strange man.”

Deborah looked up and narrowed her eyes. There was indeed a strange man, in an old-fashioned coat and battered tophat, slowly making his way towards her stall. He pretended to mill about—glancing at the offerings of other booths, asking the other fishmongers questions and waving a small white bundle at them—but all the same, it was obvious to her eye that his intended destination was her stall.  When he finally reached her, he briefly surveyed the fish she had on display, before finally looking up at her and inquiring, “Are you Deborah Owens?”

 “Aye.”

He seemed to have been expecting this answer. “Good. I have a bonnet for you from your husband.”

“A bonnet?” she asked suspiciously. “From _Vinculus_?”

“Yes. I am a milliner, you see. I deal in bonnets and fol-de-lols. He bought this for you.” From inside of his coat, he withdrew a handful of white frills.

“Bought _that_? With what?” she enquired.

“He told me you had—” Here the dark milliner was obliged to stop by the occurrence of a very fat man nearly knocking him to the ground. With some difficulty he righted himself before continuing, “a book. He said you would trade me his book for a bonnet.”

“A book?” she said incredulously. “I don’t think Vinculus has ever owned a book in his life. In fact, I am not so sure he can read. “

 “You are sure?” he pressed. “You do not have any sort of magical book in your possession, in your home?”

“No,” she replied curtly.

“He has never mentioned any sort of book of magic?”

“No,” she repeated. She squinted at him. “And if I may be so bold to ask, what use would a milliner have for a book of magic?”

The milliner shrugged. “What use would a fishwife have for a fol-de-lol?” He looked at the bonnet in his hand ruefully. “I am afraid, madam, I cannot give this to you without the proper payment.”

“Well,” retorted Deborah, “I did not particularly want it, at any rate. After all, as you said, what use would it have for me?”

The milliner nodded at this wisdom. “Well, there is nothing more for me here, Mrs. Owens.” He tipped his hat to her, turned, and walked away.

“Tell that rascal Vinculus,” she called after him, “not to buy me bonnets I cannot wear. And if he does, tell him he d— well ought to pay for them first!”

He did not turn, but he must have heard, for he raised one hand in acknowledgement.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“She does not know, sir,” John Childermass informed his master. “She tells me Vinculus probably cannot read. I, for one, believe she may have a point there.”

“Why would he boast of having a book if he could not read it?” sneered Henry Lascelles. “Really, Mr Norrell, I cannot understand why you employ such half-wits.”

Childermass slowly clenched one hand into a fist, but Mr Norrell was too upset to attend to this exchange. “You are sure, Childermass?”

Childermass raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever known me to be wrong?”

This assurance was not enough to make Mr Norrell stop wringing his hands. “Yet there are four wives left. You must ask them all."

"I have asked my cards, sir. They say none of the wives know aught of this book. They say Vinculus carries the book on his person."

"I have told you many times, Childermass. I do not approve of any servant of mine asking questions of picture-cards. It is mystical, Childermass, mystical! And I do not trust them. You must find the book yourself. I must examine it. A book of magic—and in the hands of such people. I am sure none of them have a library to house it.”

Childermass smiled his sideways smile and raised his eyebrows dramatically. “Do you know, sir,” he said softly, “I do not think they even own _bookshelves._ ”

Mr Norrell’s beady blue eyes opened wider than anyone would have thought possible, and his face turned white and red alternately, as if he could not decide whether to be frightened or angry. He trembled at the thought of a book without a bookshelf and looked askance at Mr Lascelles to make sure such a travesty was possible. Smirk widening, Childermass left to find the second wife.


	2. The Baker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Childermass meets the second wife.

Emily was sliding the last of the loaves out of the oven when she heard the store’s front door open. She turned around with a smile to greet her first customer of the day.

“Good morning, sir! How may I help you today?”

“I am not sure yet. May I look?”

“Certainly!”

She pretended to arrange biscuits in small boxes, but really she was watching the man. She found him very queer. His dark clothes were ancient, but for all their age, they had been kept in good care. There were neatly sewn patches on either elbow and his neckcloth was clean. Suddenly he looked up at her.

"Are you the owner of this establishment?”

She laughed. “Oh, no. No, Mr Clarkson is the owner. He is away at the moment, but if you would like to speak with him, he will return Saturday.”

“No. It is fine.” He continued staring at a particularly arresting Linzer torte. After a brief pause, he said, “Then what is your name?”

She frowned. “Emily Harroway.”

He nodded without taking his eyes off the pastry.

“And you, sir? What is your name?”

He looked as though he had not been expecting this question. “John Taylor,” he said finally. “I am a milliner,” he added. “I make bonnets and fol-de-lols. The royal family buys my wares.”

“Well, sir, they must be very nice bonnets indeed.”

“I think so.” He paused again, then looked up from the pastry at her. “Would you like one?” he asked hopefully.

She was taken aback. “I do not particularly need any…fol-de-lols at the moment, thank you. Would you like to buy a tart?”

“Are you sure? I would give a bonnet to you at an excellent price. In fact, we could trade for it. I am looking for a book on magic. You would not happen to have any of those, would you?”

“No, sir, I am afraid not.”

He was silent. Hesitantly, he asked, “Your brothers, your children, your husband…are you sure none of them may be in possession of a magical book?”

“No, sir.”

The man looked frustrated. “I see. There is more on the line than just bonnets, however. Whatever you would like, I would give it you if the book was the one I was looking for.”

“I did not know milliners were so interested in magic,” said Emily slowly.

The man said nothing.

“In fact,” she continued, “if I did not know better, I would call your story into question. You are, after all, a rather unlikely milliner.”

“Yes,” he mused. “I suppose I am.” After looking at the desserts again, he pointed to the tart. “I’ll take that.”

As he walked out of the bakery, he could feel the lady’s eyes following him through the window. Oh, well. At the very least, Hannah would be pleased with the tart.


End file.
